


Annihilate

by IwillbeReichenbach



Series: Aberrate [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Altered Mental States, Angst, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Graphic Description, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Pain, Rape, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump, Trauma, Violence, like a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22066990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: Sherlock visits a bar as a favour to a uni friend.  He meets someone interesting, someone he can't quite work out, someone very dangerous.   This chance meeting will have a horrific outcome.A prequel to Ameliorate.  Read that first though.  Reading this first will alter the experience of reading the full story.  This is just a titbit for those that want to read a bit more and those that want to read a pretty damn confronting prequel.This story includes a very graphic description of rape, please heed the tags, make good choices and always check for consent.   Really though, this is not a nice story.  I originally wrote it to get my ducks in a row for Ameliorate and I had no intention of letting it free.  For a number of reasons I have decided to post it here.  I hope that those of you that like dark, heavy stories appreciate this tale of woe.Thanks again to my super beta Sandrina. She makes my stories presentable for all you beautiful readers.  However, all mistakes are mine own, I have jigged about with this story too many times, so there might be more than normal.  Sorry Sandrina, how do you cope with my typos, grammar disasters and tense debacles?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Series: Aberrate [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588240
Comments: 6
Kudos: 110





	1. Sherlock Holmes

“Have you asked her out yet?” He asked Roger. He’d known Roger for three semesters. They had shared numerous classes but few words. Roger was a nerdy bookish type. Boring by Sherlock’s standards, but relatively smart in an effortful way. 

“Who?” Roger asked, confused but blushing at being confronted over something so personal. 

“Jessica.” Sherlock said, squinting at Roger as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why would I ask her out? She is way out of my league.” 

“Because she likes you.” 

“No, no she doesn’t. Wish she did though.” 

“She asked you for help on three of the short answer questions even though she has been getting better marks than you all term, she wears her best clothing to the classes you also attend, she always chooses an empty row at lectures hoping you will sit with her and she laughs at all your jokes even though they are pathetic, but the most damning evidence is that I saw her writing a note to Sally-Anne, the note described you as ‘hot’. Her words, not mine.” Sherlock informed Roger in a blunt, yet awkward, fashion that Jessica was, in fact, fond of him.

“Oh wow. Umm, I guess, when you put it that way, maybe she does like me, a bit then. Shit. Maybe I should ask her out. Do you think?”

“Yep.” Sherlock said to a dumbfounded Roger as he walked away, already bored by Roger’s stumbling and muttering. 

The following morning, as Sherlock stood in the line at the campus café, desperately waiting for a coffee, Roger rushed up to him.

“Sherlock.” 

“Jesus.” Sherlock muttered. This was too much before coffee. 

“I need your help.” Roger said with a hint of desperation in his voice. 

“If you haven’t written your paper yet, there is nothing I can do to help you out. It’s due,” he glanced at his watch, “seven hours and forty-five minutes ago.” 

“No, I did it three days ago. It’s Jess.” 

“Oh, nick names already. How adorable.” Sherlock hated that those words sounded exactly like something his brother would say. He was thankful a moment later when he noticed that Roger was too excited to realise that he was being sarcastic. 

“Yeah, she’s awesome,” Roger grinned, “but I, erm, I told her I was going to the pub tonight. I kind of freaked out. Told her that I was going there with you.”

“With me. Why the hell did you do that?”

“I freaked out. Totally panicked. I was sure that she’d turn me down. I was trying to act casual. Will you go?”

“Go where?” 

“The pub? Please. She is going to meet me there. She is bringing Sally-Anne. Please Sherlock. Please. Help a guy out. I’m freaking.”

“How could my being there possibly help?” He was genuinely confused by that, surely, he could be nothing but a hindrance in this situation. 

“Moral support. Plus, I wouldn’t look like Roger-no-friends while I wait for her. Would you, please?” 

Sherlock was surprised at the request but amused by Roger’s intensity and he did kind of hope that he and Jessica would work out together. They were both nice people. Those were rare. 

“Sure. Ok. Where?”

“The Hox and Found. 7 o’clock. I’ll buy you a beer. Thanks.” Roger called over his shoulder as he was bounding off in excitement. How could anyone be that excited about going there, Sherlock wondered?

When he walked into the pub at 7.05 that evening, he spotted Roger immediately. He was sitting by the bar with his back to the door, tearing a napkin to shreds and tapping his foot. Sherlock had barely made it through the door before Roger turned to see who was coming in. He was clearly a mass of nerves and excitement. He greeted Sherlock as if he was his best buddy, clapping him on the back with his meaty palm. 

“What should I say to her?” Roger asked almost instantly. 

“How should I know?”

“You know everything.” 

Sherlock snorted. “No. I really don’t.” 

“Sure you do. You’re top of every class.”

“I know nothing about talking to girls, absolutely nothing. I offered to help Jan with her Bunsen burner the other day and she told me to piss off.”

“Shit, you’re right. You are hopeless at talking to people.” Roger laughed but not unkindly. Sherlock smiled at that; he knew it was true and it was nice that it was being joked about and not in a cruel way. “Beer?” 

“Nar thanks but I’ve got a physics test in the morning. Just a lemonade.”

They sipped their drinks and chatted about the physics test as Roger fidgeted and glanced at the door every other moment. Thankfully it wasn’t long before the girls arrived. He might have worn a hole in the bar stool if he had turned around once more, Sherlock thought. 

Roger and Jessica hit it off from the first. Sally-Anne flirted with the barman while the woman that worked there looked on with disdain. They all played pool, proving that there was yet another thing that Sherlock was not good at. They drank. They talked about people from school. 

Sherlock hated it. This was why he rarely went out. Sure, everyone was pleasant, but it was so dull. Soon he allowed himself to be distracted by the other patrons. He sat at the end of the bar with his second lemonade and watched the people around him. A woman in her early forties that was hoping to pick up. Her wedding ring hidden in her pocket. A welder who’d been laid off that day; drinking himself stupid. Three guys that were betting on the cricket game that they watched huddled around a small telly with the sound turned up too loud. A group of students drinking and smoking in the little area outside the back of the pub. 

The area was only big enough for a couple of picnic tables and was all pavers and high paling fences, making it dark and dingy. Someone had tried to improve the ambiance by installing a string of lights, each with different coloured globes. The effect was minimal and not an improvement, rather the multicoloured pools of light just made the scene all the more depressing. The area was ambitiously named The Field according to a sign above the door. A hunting joke of sorts, Sherlock knew, but the area was barely worthy of being called a garden let alone a field. It looked like the group was celebrating someone’s birthday, no, two birthdays. 

Dull, dull, dull. Sherlock thought. Then there was the guy that didn’t make sense. He didn’t belong to a group. He wasn’t drowning his sorrows, but he was drinking heavily. What was he doing here, Sherlock wondered? He was out of place. Too well dressed to be here alone, all the other lone drinkers had clearly just left work and were in their drab work clothes. He must have a job that requires a good standard of dress. Most of the businessmen and women drank at The Jewel. It was only a block away and much nicer than this place. Less students too. Most of the middle class favoured it. Almost everyone favoured it. So, why was he here? Was he avoiding someone? Perhaps it was just closer to home or perhaps he was broke. The Hox and Found was undoubtedly the cheaper establishment, with its tacky cartoon hunting pictures of foxes riding hounds across country and dusty vintage taxidermy. This was a place for students, and tradesmen, and drunks. Not for businessmen. 

Sally-Anne tapped him on the shoulder. He turned away from the bar to speak to her. “I’m off. I’ve got work in the morning. The love birds are hitting it off. I’m not in tomorrow but I’ll see you Friday.” She said cheerfully. 

“Yeah. See you Friday.” He replied, knowing he sounded distracted. When he turned back to the bar looking for the out of place man, he was gone. Oh well. Not all mysteries get solved, he thought, but when he turned back to where Roger and Jessica were leaning over the old jukebox the man was right in front of him. He was taller than he had expected, mid-thirties, stocky build. A lesser man might have startled at his sudden close appearance. 

“Hello.” Sherlock said as the man took the seat beside him at the bar. Jessica and Roger started dancing to the slow tune they had picked out. Sherlock didn’t recognise it. Popular music was a mystery to him. 

“Hi,” the man said nodding at the dancers, “friends of yours?”

“Yep.” 

“Sucks being the third wheel.”

It took Sherlock a moment to realise what the man meant, then realised he was referring to his being unnecessary to the couple and surplus to their needs. Because he couldn’t think of anything else to say he just said, “I don’t mind really. They are having fun.” 

“You’re not interested in the cricket, or the pretty girls, or playing pool. What are you doing here?” The man asked. 

“I could say the same to you.” Sherlock replied. Evading the question but intrigued by this person. It’s not often you meet someone so perceptive.

“I’m not like them.” The man said. 

Sherlock already knew it was true, but he couldn’t identify exactly why he knew this. He hated not understanding his hunches. He needed more information to understand this person. “How so?” 

“Oh, this and that.” The man said airily. He chuckled and pointed past Sherlock towards the dancers. As Sherlock glanced over at them Roger spun Jessica around then hugged her close just as the song ended. They were both giggling. 

“They are a cute couple.” The man said leaning a bit too close.

Sherlock was saved from replying by Roger and Jessica coming over to them; both breathless with laughter and holding hands. 

“We are going to take off.” Roger said to Sherlock. “Want to share a cab?” 

“Nar. You go ahead.” He said, knowing they would want some privacy. They could hardly keep their hands off each other. They left in a hurry, calling out to wish him luck for his test in the morning. 

The man asked about Sherlock’s studies, and they chatted about university life while they sipped their drinks. He had studied too but was elusive about what course he had taken, only saying that it was something in media. 

The man finished his whisky in one big gulp and excused himself to see a man about a dog. Appropriate as the men’s room was labelled Dogs and the lady’s Bitches. Classy place this, Sherlock thought, as he looked around. The patrons had really thinned out as they had been talking. There were only the group of students left, they had moved inside now but looked like they had set up in the corner near the pool table. They had something new blaring on the jukebox. It didn’t look like they would be leaving any time soon. It was getting late though, especially for a Wednesday night. He was starting to feel tired, should really be heading off. He swigged down the last of his lemonade and stood to leave. His knees nearly buckling under him. Someone caught him by the elbow, stopping him from crumpling to the floor. He was back. Standing close again. Too close.

“Careful, you alright?” The man asked. There was something off about how he smiled but Sherlock couldn’t quite make it out.

“Fine. Thanks.” He answered, taking his arm back. In truth, he didn’t feel quite right, but he shook it off.

“You smoke?” The man asked. 

“Yeah.” Sherlock said, his voice sounding far away. 

“Come on then. There are ashtrays outside. I can’t believe they won’t let people smoke in pubs anymore.” He said leading the way to the back door. 

The room swam and tilted as Sherlock walked and he was starting to think that something was wrong. He has dabbled with enough chemicals to know that this did not feel right. The cogs of his mind turned slowly, and he couldn’t think to do anything but follow the man. A cigarette would be good. It would wake him up, clear his mind and then he would go home. 

The cold night air hit him in a blast as they stepped outside. It was bracing, it felt good. The multi-coloured globes left tinted blobs of colour on the ground and the paling fence. A blush of pale red followed by an orb of mauve then a pools of moss green. It gave the area a gawdy atmosphere. 

They went to the picnic bench on the far side of the paved area that proudly called itself The Field but did not have a single plant or blade of grass, unless you counted the moss that grew between the pavers. The man pushed Sherlock playfully down onto the seat. The jolt of sitting down heavily caused his vision to swim and darkened. He blinked to try to clear it. He is drunk Sherlock realised when he noted that he sat down just as heavily beside him. 

Sherlock fumbled a fist into the pocket of his jeans to grab a crumpled box of cigarettes, then offered one to the other man. He already had one out though. Sherlock wondered how he had managed it so quickly. He got his lighter out, but it took him three goes to get the flame to stand up and it swayed in front of the tip of his cigarette. Holding it steady was apparently not going to happen, he smiled self-consciously at his inability and nearly dropped the cigarette from between his lips. The flame went out. He got it on his next try. This wasn’t right, he should feel worried, but he just felt tired. 

The man watched him with an intense gaze as he smoked his own cigarette. They talked a bit, Sherlock struggling to concentrate on the conversation, forgetting what was said almost instantly but he tried to respond in the right ways at the right times. 

He smokes a strange brand, Sherlock noticed, but couldn’t identify which brand from the smell. He leaned a bit closer to identify it. Breathing in deeply. 

Then there was a hand on his crotch. It stroked him firmly and confidently through his tight jeans. Sherlock stared down at the hand. It shouldn’t be there. He did not want it there. Alarmed, he tried to stand. There had been a misunderstanding. He didn’t want this. Had he missed some social cues? He did that, often. A hand locked him in place though, a big paw that wrapped nearly around his thigh, roughly holding him as he tried to rise. 

“No, I, umm, sorry. Not interested.” His voice sounded strange. It did not portray the alarm he felt.

The hand was back on his crotch again. Rougher this time, more insistent, stroking down before cupping is genitals and squeezing too hard. Hard enough to bruise.

“You want this. I can tell. Your gagging for a good fuck, aren’t you pretty boy.” The man whispered harshly in his ear. 

Panic rose up in Sherlock fast, just as fast as he stood. He made it to his feet this time. His legs hardly held him, and the first stride sent him reeling towards the fence. The man was shoving him hard in the back propelling him forward. He crashed chest first into the fence, the man pressing himself against his back. A punch to his side knocked the air out of him.

In that moment, Sherlock knew two things for certain; he had been drugged and he was in real danger. The practical part of his mind told him that the two things were connected; he wouldn’t have bothered with the drugs if rape was not his intention. 

He had to fight. 

He threw an elbow back hard. Spun fast, flicking his cigarette at the man’s face with one hand, while with the other he threw a punch that made his wrist crunch and his nails sink into his palm. 

Run! His brain screamed, run while you have the chance, but his feet moved too slowly. He was shoved back against the fence. A fist in his hair bounced his head of the palings. He lost count of how many times. Then he was spun around. Dizzy. Dizzy from the blows, dizzy from fear, dizzy from the drugs. There must have been drugs. 

He realised the panic of not being able to breathe before he registered the hand at his throat. Then his face exploded in pain as the man’s forehead crashed into the bridge of his nose. Sherlock choked on blood as he tried to get a little air through. Broken nose; a voice in the back of his brain informed him. 

He didn’t feel tired anymore, he realised, as more pain bloomed in his chest. Even if the hand came off his throat, he knew he would be too winded to breathe anyway. Punch after punch rained down on him. He was desperate for air, panicking but fading too as his lungs burned and his diaphragm spasmed. His eyes started to close. Stay awake, his brain supplied helpfully. 

Then he was falling for half a heartbeat. The fall arrested by an arm across his throat instead of the hand. Some air got in. So did some blood and spit. He tasted copper as he choked on a cough. 

Hand on his belt. Hand down his pants, cold fingers against his cock. Whisper in his ear. “I’m going to fuck you hard Posh Spice. You’ll beg me for more when I’m done.”

His legs kicked feebly, and he tried to scrape at his attacker with his nails. Desperate to get away. Desperate for this to not be happening. He saw the next head butt coming, managed to turn his head enough for it to miss his nose this time. It hit him just under his left eye instead. He nearly blacked out from the pain, collapsing fully against the man, the arm across this throat the only thing holding him upright. 

Then fingers; thick and strong running down the back of his pants, down the cleft of his arse. Shit. Shit. This is really happening, he thought as pain ripped through him. Rough and dry, the man shoved his fingers in. Sherlock cried out at the pain and shock of the intrusion. Got a lung full of whisky breath and disgust. He realised his shirt was ripped opened when he felt the man press against him, wondered vaguely when that had happened, why he hadn’t noticed? Jammed between the fence and the man as he rolled his hips against Sherlock’s, as he thrust his fingers in and out. He could feel the erection against his own limp penis. Frozen in place by the pain, clutching at the man hoping it would stop. 

He was on the ground before he registered the shove that sent him there. He tried to crawl away. Open, his jeans threatened to fall down this arse. He tried to hold them up and nearly fell. Made it a couple shuffles forwards. Something gouged at his right knee. He tried to pull himself up on the table. Tasted freedom for just a moment. The big hands were on him again pulling him back, shoving him down further. Bending him in half, pushing his face down against the cold pavers. Knees trapped beneath him, right one in agony. The man punching at his back, ripping his trousers down. Cold air on his arse. Fist pounding on his lower back. Face ground into the filthy ground amongst the cigarette butts. Burning ribs at every breath. Clawing at the ground trying to pull himself away, fingers digging into the mud and moss between the pavers. A blunt nudge at his arsehole. Sheer panic. 

Pain!

Pain of unbelievable magnitude as his attacker drove into him violently. Overwhelmed, he froze. 

All the fight gone out of him. Flight or fight were not the only responses to danger, there was a third response, often forgotten about, saved for situations of extreme stress. Freeze. Sherlock was aware of this somewhere in the chambers of his mind even as he was unable to believe that his night out had turned into this. 

He tried to hide away inside his mind, but each thrust brought him back to the surface. The attacker grabbed his right arm, twisted it up behind him. It should have hurt, probably did, but he couldn’t feel any of the other pains in that moment, just the feeling that his arse was being torn to shreds. He tried not to clench against the pain, but he was powerless to control his body against the force of his attacker. He shook with the effort, but his body refused to cooperate, clasping tight around the intrusion until something tore apart with a frightening burst of agony. His world narrowed down to nothing but that pain and the man behind him grunting in rhythm with his punches and his thrusts. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Sherlock could feel a bead of sweat running down his collar bone. He tracked the path, focused in on the feeling of the cold trail it left behind and the prickle of his skin around it as it ran down towards his throat while he waited for the rapist to finish with him, powerless to stop it. More powerless that he had ever been. He heard a tap dripping, tried to focus on that rather than his own growing erection. 

Drip 

Drip 

Drip 

He couldn’t hold the focus though; another noise was too distracting.

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Blood or fluid slicked the way now. They pain was no less though. There was no pleasure, just pain but Sherlock felt his cock filling anyway. Pressure, just pressure, he told himself as his tried to hold his body still against its conflicting wills. Flee from pain, push back against pressure. His brain wanted less; his body wanted more. Uncontrollable. Unavoidable. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Sherlock’s body spasmed with no warning. Clenching down on the intrusion with what was left of his destroyed sphincter. A spike in the already unimaginable pain left him lightheaded. It wasn’t until he felt the warmth on his navel that he realised the attack had ripped ejaculate from him. There had been none of the normal symptoms of orgasm, but shame burned fiercely in him. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Then a pause. 

Sherlock was pulled upright to stand on his knees. Pressure at the back of his knees from his jeans released. Blood fizzed in his arteries as it returned to his feet. The man’s chest pressed warm against his back where the air had cooled the sweat there. One arm thrown across his chest, the hand around his throat. The other hand wiping the fluid across his belly. Overwhelmed, Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He looked around, confused. He told himself to breathe. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

“You love it don’t you. You slut.”

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Sherlock didn’t react. He couldn’t have. His mind was a blur, but his body had shut down. Only the hammering in his chest reminded him he wasn’t dead. In that moment he wouldn’t have minded it that stopped too, if it meant this was over. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt. 

Grunt.

Grunt.  
Grunt.  
Grunt. Grunt.  
Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. Grunt.  
Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. Grunt GruntGruntGruntGruntGruntGrunt. 

“Agrrrh.” The man sighed in Sherlock’s ear, holding him still against his heaving chest. 

Defeat, disgust and relief came equally, conflicting, complementing, and competing with each other. Then more pain as the man pulled his cock free. Sherlock was sure all his bowels would follow. Sure, that he had been ripped open wide enough that it would all just drop out. Warmth ran down his thighs instead. 

“Don’t worry, next time will be better.” The man said into his ear as he pushed Sherlock in the back. 

He fell forwards, his head bounced off the pavers and he couldn’t think to care. His vision blurred white, then red, then black. Then the world came back into focus all black and sharp whites, with no shades. It took a few long moments for his vision to return to normal and the orbs of coloured light to return. 

He could see the man in the corner of his vision. He thought he would kill him then. Maybe he had a knife. That wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. Couldn’t hurt any worse than being stabbed by his cock. 

There was no knife though. He just ripped Sherlock’s shirt free from his limp arms and kicked him over into his side. His right shoulder screamed in agony as his arm twisted beneath him. The pain made his breath hitch. He watched the man use his shirt to wipe his cock clean. There was so much blood that it stained half the shirt. He went down on one knee and thrust the filthy shirt in Sherlock’s face. Rubbing it against his broken features. 

“Do you smell that? That’s me you can smell. You’ll smell me every time you shit for a month.” 

Then he walked calmly away. 

Sherlock didn’t know how much time passed before he decided he needed to pull his jeans up. Once the decision was made, he felt an urgency. He had to struggle though, it was awkward, with his arm trapped beneath him. He nearly gave up but eventually he had the clothing up around his hips. Pants twisted beneath the jeans. Unable to care so long as he was covered. His hands shook so much he could barely manage the button and fly. The belt was left dangling, forgotten. 

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket next. His hands too cold and jittery to manage much. He was cold all over, he realised now. He tried typing a text message but pressing the triple nine, two, six and three was too much for him and he wouldn’t think of anyone else to message, so he gave up. Vaguely he knew he should just dial 999 but he couldn’t face it. Cold. He was so cold. Every shudder sent another icy splinter of pain through him. He just wanted to drift away.


	2. Greg Lestrade

He wanted a pint. Just a quiet drink before he went home to face his wife. It wouldn’t help; if anything, she’d be all the more angry to know he hadn’t come straight home, but every night had been the same lately. He’d come home and kiss her like he always had, but now she stiffened when his lips brushed hers. He would ask her how her day had been, and she would reply ‘alright’. She didn’t ask him about his day was anymore. She didn’t say much to him at all. If he was home early enough, he would listen to her cooking dinner. She had always shown talent in the kitchen and she had always said she loved to cook. Lately she would clang around their kitchen like she was angry at the dishes. If he asked her what was wrong, she would tell him that ‘nothing’ was wrong but the way she said it told him that he was meant to know exactly what was wrong. He just needed to unwind a bit before he faced it all again tonight. It had been a twelve-hour shift and he had spent four of that in an interrogation room with a distraught woman who had shaken her baby to death because he wouldn’t stop crying. Surely one pint wasn’t too much to ask. 

He parked out the front of the pub. There were plenty of spaces. It was late for a weeknight and almost everybody had gone home already, or they were sensible enough to know if they were drinking that late that they should probably get a cab. He’d been to this bar a bunch of times; he was practically a regular. The Hox and Found was between work and home. Lots of pubs were but he liked that this one wasn’t pretentious. It hadn’t changed in years and the yuppies never drank here. 

The girl that worked behind the bar had poured him the beer he always ordered before he even made it halfway to the bar. She smiled at him. She knew he was married but flirted shamelessly anyway, he couldn’t be bothered with the polite rejections he usually offered her, so he took his beer and headed outside. After being cooped up inside all day he wanted to feel air on his face and smoke in his lungs. He lit up in the doorway, balancing his beer and his lighter like a bloody expert. 

He took neither a drag nor a sip before he saw the body crumpled on the ground, shirtless and covered in blood that looked near black in the moonlight. 

He called back into the bar. “Call an ambulance, and the police, and don’t let anybody leave. And turn the bloody lights on out here.”

He dumped his pint on the table and his cigarette in the ashtray and strode over to the person on the ground. He was crouched down before he realised that his eyes were open. Unblinking. For a moment he was sure that he was dead. Then he heard a shallow breath. He was thankful that the prone figure was already on his side and that he did not have to move him into the recovery position. 

A bright floodlight was switched on. The victim groaned and blinked as he was bathed in white light that highlighted the details of the grotesque scene. 

The figure on the ground was thin to the point of being skinny, pale to the point of being translucent. Clearly young, perhaps too young to be at the pub. A snarl of dark hair matted with blood and dirt covered half his face. The rest of his face was a mass of blood and swelling but beneath that he had fine features; high cheekbones, almost feminine lips, made masculine only by the deep split that marred the bottom lip. The almost odd combination of features was adorned with the most astonishing pale eyes Greg had ever seen. Despite the damage he was attractive in a way that made something twinge inside Greg’s chest. Something that hadn’t happened to him in year, certainly not since he’d been married. 

He pushed the thought away, feeling inappropriate for even appreciating the kid’s beauty and focused on scanning over the rest of the victim. His chest and back were covered in dark red marks and purple bruises. Tight black jeans were the only clothing that he wore. It did not escape Greg’s notice that that the belt was not done up on those jeans and that he knees of those jeans were very dirty and ripped and not in a fashionable way. His hands were covered in blood, knuckles spit opened, his fingernails ragged. The kid had copped a hiding, Greg thought, but he had put up a fight too.

“Hey, can you hear me?” Greg asked the prone figure. The pale eyes flicked towards him, as if seeing him for the first time. He seemed to shrink away further, with a barely audible whimper. Instinctively Greg knew that he was afraid. It was clear that the lad gone through a very bad evening. “I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Greg Lestrade. I’m with the Metropolitan Police. What’s your name?”

The young guy’s jaw moved weakly, and Greg thought he wouldn’t be able to get the words out. He heard a whisper but missed most of the word.

“Sean?” He asked, guessing at the name.

The lad moved his lips again and said a word that was still mumbled but slightly more discernible. 

“Sir Lock?” Greg asked, confused.

“Idiot.” That was a word he understood even in such a slurred voice. “Sherlock. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock.” Greg repeated to be sure. He sounded drunk. 

“Hmm.” 

“Ok, Sherlock. Have you been drinking tonight? Greg asked. The kid sounded hammered.

“No.” Sherlock started out forcefully, but as he went on his words grew weaker and more slurred. “Just lemonade. Drugged. Must have been drugged.”

Ok, we will look into it. You must be cold, it is freezing out here.” Greg slipped his jacket off as he spoke and moving slowly, draped it over Sherlock’s skinny shoulders. Sherlock pulled the jacket closer around him; his hands shaking. “There is an ambulance coming to pick you up. They will look after you.”

“I just want to go home.”

“I know, but that’s really not an option, you look pretty rough. I think you had better get checked out at the hospital.” 

The figure on the ground shivered, his breath hitched. Greg knelt down next to him, no longer able to crouch, his knees popping as he adjusted his position. He took one of Sherlock’s hands in his, hoping to be reassuring, knowing there was every chance he would pull away. Instead he gripped on with a strength that did not align with his apparent frailty. 

“What happened here tonight?” Greg asked, always the police officer.

“You know what happened. You can see it. I know you can. Don’t… don’t make me say it.” Despite the slurring his voice started off strong, but the sentence ended as a plea. It was clear that he was holding onto his composure by a very thin thread.

Greg was saved from trying to convince the victim to talk by the arrival of the ambulance crew. Two men in uniform bustled out of the rear door of the pub. Sherlock panicked then. Gripping onto Greg’s wrist and trying to pull himself upward. Greg could see the pain and fear in his face. “Don’t let them touch me. Don’t let them touch me. Don’t let them touch me. Don’t let them touch me.”

Greg held out a hand towards the newcomers and thankfully they stopped still. 

“I’m Detective Sergeant Greg Lestrade.” He explained to the ambulance officers as they paused surveying the scene; watching their patient as he clung to the other man. “Just give him a moment. It has been a difficult night for him.”

Instinct took over and Greg let Sherlock pull himself closer until he was sitting upright. His eyes were wild with fear. Greg tried to reassure him as best he could. It took a few long moments but eventually it appeared that Sherlock regained some of his composure. His shoulders slumped and he let out a breath that sounded almost like a moan. 

“I’m sorry. I know. I know I need to go in the ambulance. Can you help me? Don’t want to, not the stretcher. I want to get myself there.” Sherlock’s sentences were jumbled but the meaning was clear. Greg had seen it before. Victims who wanted to leave a crime scene under their own power rather than carried away. He could understand that need to take some power back. He looked to the ambulance officers. One had a dubious look on his face, the other just shrugged. 

Greg took that as an agreement. He got to his feet and pulled Sherlock up. The young man groaned with the effort. Greg’s jacket fell to the ground. They stood for a moment, the thin lad with his eyes squeezed shut as he swayed on the spot. Greg could see he was fighting back the pain. He wrapped an arm around the young man’s naked back. He was so thin that Greg could reach right around his back, under his arm pit and across his bare chest to stop him falling forward. He was taller than Greg had expected, taller than he was, he suspected but unable to stand at full height. With him slumped against his side, Greg used his other hand to grip the only thing that was available, grabbing the waistband of the dark jeans. Muttering an apology as they stumbled forwards. 

The bar was brightly lit now that all the lights were on and completely silent. A group of teenagers sat in the corner looking subdued and tired. The woman behind the bar polished glasses. Greg ignored them all. They were making slow progress, Sherlock only able to take small unsteady steps. One of the ambulance officers was holding the front door open for them when Sherlock paused. That was all the warning Greg got before gravity dragged them both to the floor, Sherlock suddenly a dead weight in his arms. Greg felt a moment of anger at winding up sitting on the floor, anger at himself for this foolishness, anger that he hadn’t let the medical expert take over, anger at whoever did this to the young man in his arms. A young man that he already felt strangely attached to. He made a snap decision. Sherlock had been so determined to not get carried out on a stretcher. Greg couldn’t bear to deny him that. He scooped him up and carried him the last few paces out the front door and up into the waiting ambulance, before laying him gently on the stretcher. He weighed next to nothing, even as a dead weight he was shockingly light. He stepped back and let the ambulance officers work. They were a flurry of activity as they made him stable for transport. Greg stood in the street and watched, his hands beginning to shake. That hadn’t happened to him on a job in years, not since he had been a constable. He told himself it was the cold. 

Greg was leaning against the pub wall and smoking his second cigarette, lit off the butt of his first when red and blue lights flashed down the street, announcing the arrival of the police. Greg knew this one would be difficult to hand over. Impossible maybe. He wondered if his supervisor would let him work this one, then decided that it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. He was assigned to violent crimes, and sexual assault was certainly under their purview. As the officers stepped out of the panda car, he could see that he outranked them, best he helped them get the jump on this one, they could take it off him tomorrow if they wanted to, he decided as they closed the back door of the ambulance. 

“Where are you taking him?” Greg called out. Knowing he would need to get a statement later.

“The London.” The driver called back as he jogged around to the front seat. 

Greg finished his cigarette as he watched the ambulance disappear around the corner, then he pushed off the wall to go inside, fetch his jacket and start with the interviews. He thought he had seen a security camera out the back too. Maybe there was some video footage of the attacker, if they were very, very lucky.


End file.
